


Closing My Eyes Only Leads Me Back To You

by sodaschemes



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Nightmares, Pre-Season/Series 01, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27925870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodaschemes/pseuds/sodaschemes
Summary: Donald Duck has had nightmares. Some are worse than others.
Relationships: Dewey Duck & Donald Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck, Donald Duck & Della Duck, Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Closing My Eyes Only Leads Me Back To You

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I never thought I would be doing is writing angsty fanfic about Donald Duck, but here we are.

Donald Duck has had plenty of nightmares before.

Growing up going on wild adventures with his uncle and his twin sister, it was to be expected. Even normal people dealt with nightmares, so he supposed the fact that he’d been in many horrifying near-death situations only added to that.

He still had the same sort of nightmares he’d had in his youth. Some were more tame, of the variety of showing up at school naked and embarrassed, but others were based in reality. Being offered as a living sacrifice (multiple times), nearly being squashed like a pancake in collapsing mines and caves, that sort of thing. He still had nightmares from times like those. 

What was worse were the memories that haunted him in his sleep of more…  _ personal _ things.

Being made fun of by every other person he met, being told that his voice was stupid, unrecognizable, freakish. He’d been mocked for it his entire life. He didn’t know why it still hurt.

(Dreams of those few blessed occasions (usually magical fuck-ups) in which he could speak clearly, be  _ heard _ , sound  _ normal _ . Those haunted him too.)

Dreams like those always left a deeper ache than the deadly ones. Collapsing mines could not hurt your feelings, because they weren’t mean to begin with. Mines collapsed because they had to, eventually. The structures supporting the entire thing would wear down after years, and it would just… crumble.

It wasn’t the mine’s fault if a family of overconfident adventuring ducks happened to be inside when it did.

When people made fun of him,  _ that _ was on purpose.  _ That _ was always intended to be hurtful, always demolishing the support beams in the mine when they were still so sturdy, still had so much life in them.

Della had always defended him when she found out. Donald wasn’t the only one in the family with a temper, after all. She’d gotten in trouble  _ so many times _ for defending him.

After how he acted for so long, he never really thought he deserved it.

He dreamed of Della, sometimes. That hurt too.

But what hurt worse was the nightmares about the boys. Losing them, letting them get hurt, horrible scenario after horrible scenario that refused to leave his mind long after he woke up. Because if something happened to the boys, it was bigger than himself. Della, even in death, would never forgive him.

And so, Donald had long ago concluded that the worst nightmares of all were the ones that involved his beloved nephews. Nothing could be worse than seeing them hurt.

Other nights, he dreamed about Uncle Scrooge. He pushed those aside. He didn’t care for Scrooge anymore, not after… not after that.

But the dreams never stopped coming. Not really.

He hated that he still cared, so he pushed it down. That part of his life was behind him. Scrooge had let Della run off and get herself  _ killed _ , and that was absolutely unforgivable.

When they were younger, when one of them had a nightmare, they would sleep beside each other. Donald often longed for that past comfort.

Sometimes, when the boys had nightmares, they would opt to sleep in bed with him. They didn’t do it as much, now that they were getting older (10, going on 11, and god, the time was flying by too fast), but there were still occasions.

He treasured those occasions.

He treasured every day with his boys, really. As hard as life could be, as difficult as it was to be a single parent going from job to job and with barely enough to scrape by, they made it all worth it. Every hardship and difficulty, it was all worth it, because he had his kids.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for them.

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep at night, the gentle rocking of the waves underneath him not enough to pull him under, he would stay up and look at family photos.

He had… a lot, admittedly. But each one made his heart so full, even the ones in which he didn’t look too happy. But how couldn’t he be happy when he had this? They had everything they needed.

He was okay without Della (that was a flat-out  _ lie _ , but it was easier to pretend), and he  _ certainly _ didn’t need Scrooge. And, well, how could the boys miss what they had never really had?

That was a lie too. He knew Dewey in particular longed for his mom.

Donald could understand that. Of course he could understand that. Every kid deserved to be with their parents, and his… didn’t have that luxury. Their mother had been claimed by the void of space before they’d ever been born.

He hoped that at least made it easier for them than to live with the idea that she’d walked out on them.

Donald could get by with that idea.

The boys couldn’t.

Regardless of why she’d done it, facts were facts. Della was dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Nothing  _ he _ could do about it.

Except for blame Scrooge.

Because it  _ was _ Scrooge’s fault. He was the one who had built that  _ stupid  _ rocket in the first place, who’d let Della be  _ reckless _ and  _ idiotic _ and fly through a goddamn  _ cosmic storm _ , and  _ god he hated Scrooge so much for letting that happen _ .

Sometimes he hated himself, too, for not stopping her. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t even known what was going on until she was gone.

Sometimes, he dreamed of an endless black void, of blaring sirens, of a freak cosmic storm.

He could only be grateful that none of his nephews were particularly interested in space. It was one of the few mercies he’d been granted in life.

But sometimes, he looked up at the stars and wished he could view them in the same way again.

**Author's Note:**

> Join the party on tumblr at ninja-go-to-therapy!  
> Thanks to Princess for helping me out with the last line!


End file.
